How Much Longer?
by IndifferentStoryTeller
Summary: How long as it been since Sherlock took the fall? Why don't you ask John, he might tell you.


**Post "the fall" event, in which John has counted down how long it has been, and how much longer he can actually go on.**

**This is my first Fanfic that I have written in quite some time, so I hope you all like it. I do enjoy reading reviews so if you guys would like to give me any that would make me very happy.**

**I do not own anything it all belongs to BBC, I just simply had to write.**

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One year, four months, twenty-three days, and seventeen minutes.

That is how long Sherlock has been dead, that is how long John has had to live without him.

Forty-five minutes.

That is how much patience John has left for the world, which is also how much longer he can will himself to walk around the same flat that once had the most important man in his life. John hasn't touched any of Sherlock's stuff; he knew how much that would annoy him if John ever did. Even in Sherlock's death, John will respect his wishes.

None.

That is how much time he has spent with his therapist; he stopped going to her and talking to her weeks ago. After she made a comment stating that she knows how much he is hurting, just how he is feeling. He wanted to raise his voice at her, tell her how wrong she is. How she could never understand what it is he is feeling. How she never had to watch a man, a best friend, a loved one, jump to their death. She never saw what John saw that day, never felt what John felt that day.

She asked him to explain how it did feel when he had to watch that. The best way John could explain it was that every part of him was broken, like his own heart had burst the moment Sherlock hit the ground. After that that was the last time John had ever seen this therapist, it hurt him too much to talk about it that day, still hurts but he won't ever tell.

Zero.

That is how much tolerance John has for Mycroft. Every other day he comes over to check on John. One-twenty-two, same time, like clockwork. Clockwork that really pissed John off. Mycroft would try to get John to talk but it never did work. He would bring food and tea over to get him to eat something, let's face it; John hasn't actually eaten in well over a year. He'd pick at his food from time to time, or take a small sip of tea, just enough for him to trick Mycroft into leaving sooner.

John knew however that Mycroft might understand the amount of pain he is in, after all Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, but then again he also did not love Sherlock the way John had. Mycroft had tried his best to cheer John up, which repeatedly John would ask why he is doing this. All Mycroft ever said to that was; "I made you look after Sherlock for me, John. Now I am looking after you for Sherlock." Every time John remembered that, it made it harder for him to physically breathe.

Fifty-two hours, and fifty-five minutes.

That is surprisingly how much patience he has towards Lestrade. He was nothing like Mycroft; he would come over when he pleased, not without warning of course. He would also not force John to talk or eat; he would just sit with John wherever he was. And they would just stay like that in silence for hours. Some days John would talk, and Lestrade would respond. He made it an effort to try and make John at least crack a smile, he failed every time. After about an hour or two Lestrade would leave, tell John to have a good day and he will be seeing him again.

Ninety-five hours and fourteen minutes.

That is how much longer he can be around Mrs. Hudson. He loves the women, and he would never want to do anything that could hurt her. He would never let himself live it down if he had, he'd just imagine the face Sherlock would make if he hurts this woman. The one stable woman who took care of Sherlock before John had come around. Like Mycroft she would bring food over, but she would not force him to eat it, she would just leave it in the refrigerator for him to find later. Sometimes he wouldn't eat it, other times he would eat the whole plate, if it was one of Sherlock's favorites.

Once or twice John would go down to see Mrs. Hudson instead of her coming up to him, this always surprised her, she'd make tea and they would sit at the dining table and John would listen to her talk. It always warmed John's heart to hear the sweet old lady talk, for the time he was with her; he forgot what it felt to be broken, and how it felt to want to wait, hold on to life just a little bit longer.

Sixteen minutes.

Today Mycroft wasn't coming, neither was Lestrade because he would have gotten a text half an hour before, and Mrs. Hudson was gone for the day out shopping. John was on his own once again, and this time would be the last time. John pulled out the gun that he had hidden under the kitchen table, for safe keeping. He ever so slightly limped over to Sherlock's favorite chair and sat there, looking down at the gun.

Feeling it's cool metal on his skin, it sent a prickle all up his body, one that was painfully reminding him what it was he was about to do.

Twelve minutes.

He thought of Sherlock, like always but this time it wasn't about the fall, it was Sherlock's smile. The one he made whenever he and John were laughing really hard. He thought of Sherlock's laugh, trying so hard to remember what it sounded like, trying to figure out the pitch it made when it first bubbled out of Sherlock's throat.

Nine minutes.

He remembered how Sherlock made John feel when he was still alive, like John wasn't alone like he is now. How he could leave the flat, come back hours later and see Sherlock lying on the couch with his back to him, complaining how bored he was. How Sherlock could make John smile with just being who he was, how much fun they had while they were both on a case.

Five minutes.

John thought about how he loved Sherlock, how he wished he had told him sooner. Thinking that maybe if he had Sherlock would still be here and John didn't have a gun ready to be pointed at his head.

Three minutes.

John lifted the gun from his lap and pointed at his temple, fully well aware that at point blank range he wouldn't feel a thing when the bullet entered his skull and ended his life.

One minute.

He cocked the gun and placed his finger on the trigger and silently counted down the final seconds, his life wasn't flashing before his eyes like the myth said. It was Sherlock's face, the moments John spent with him, the times where it was just the two of them. It was the moments with Sherlock that made life for John bearable that ran through his head at the last few seconds. He was ready, he took a deep breath and-

-There was a knock on the door. John stopped.

Zero.

John put the gun under the chair; he wasn't thinking anyone was coming. Unless Lestrade was on a lunch break, or Mycroft broke his routine pattern, or even Mrs. Hudson was done with shopping early and decided to fix John a meal in his flat instead. When John finally limped all the way to the door and opened it, none of the faces he thought he'd see would be standing on the other side.

It was Sherlock.

His black hair slightly messed up and he looked to be a little out of breath, and he had a smile on his lips. One John had seen every time Sherlock solved a case, one that told the world he had beat it, he had won.

Two things were going through John's head at this moment, one; he wanted to deck Sherlock in the face for being the biggest pick on the face of the earth. Or two; bring Sherlock into his arms and hold him as tight as he possibly could, and cry like an infant who was being passed around by strangers and just wanted to be in his mummy's arms again.

He decided to do both, first he would bust Sherlock's lip then he would hug him and sob into that scarf that was around the neck of the man he missed so much.

John's hands balled into a fist and he pulled it back to take the swing, that smile on Sherlock's face was replaced with shock and terror, Sherlock took a step back to dodge. But Sherlock didn't account for John to be off balance, John missed Sherlock's face completely, tripping and he tumbled into Sherlock and they fell onto the floor.

They just laid there in the hall, with John on top of Sherlock crying, crying for the first time after the death of the man who was pinned beneath him. Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around John just under his shoulders, and he pulled John close to him. John had no idea where to put his hands, anywhere, anywhere where he could make sure Sherlock was real.

Forever.

That was how long John wanted Sherlock to stay, that was how long John wants to be with Sherlock.

John placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and lifted himself to see Sherlock's face, whom John had never seen cry before but at this moment Sherlock's blue eyes were lined with tears. Sherlock tried to smile, but it was such a sad smile and his lips were quivering as he tried to speak. It was barely a whisper, but John could hear it just fine.

"I'm sorry, John. I'm home.. Did you remember the milk?"

John lost it, he cried even harder into Sherlock, he scooped him up into his arms, and he held Sherlock and just cried. The hall was filled with the sound of the two of them, just crying into each other.

John didn't care how long Sherlock had been gone; he was here now with him, alive and in his arms where he could feel his warmth. He held his dear friend as tight as he could, daring anyone to try and take him from John again.

It didn't matter how long it took each of them to try and say anything between their violent sobs, each word that come out of Sherlock's mouth was the sweetest thing John could have ever heard in his life, Sherlock's voice was as beautiful as his Violin playing at this point.

John didn't give a damn how much time had passed before they had their first kiss, or their second, third, or fourth. The only thing he cared about was that this would not be the first time he got to kiss Sherlock. He didn't even have to tell Sherlock that he loved him, he knew now; Sherlock knew just how much John loved him with each kissed that they shared. His love was pouring into Sherlock, as was Sherlock's love was taking John over.

John didn't care how long they were on that hallway floor, or just how much longer they could stay there before someone saw, or even how much time might pass before they moved into the privacy of their flat. All John cared about was how long Sherlock was going to stay, how much time they are going to get to spend together, or when he will be able to hear Sherlock's laugh. He only cared about Sherlock, and how he never wanted to be apart from him ever again.

Not even for a minute.

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**Thank you all for reading and I hope you liked it. I have posted this as a completed story, but if I have any ideas to add on I guess at that point I will work on another chapter, until then have a nice day. **


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